Like This
by Ishie
Summary: A collection of mostly Tonks and Remus centric sketches and drabbles. Intended to flex the writing muscles. Contains HBP spoilers, so enter at own risk!
1. Like This

**Like This**

A collection of sketches and drabbles intended to flex the writing muscles.

_(First up, three connected 100 word pieces. Bridges OotP and HBP, so beware of (tiny) spoilers.)_

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_It wasn't supposed to happen like this..._

So fast he was barely had time to form the thought... The room seemed to freeze, a beautifully detailed painting, red and green streaks as curses were flung through the air.

Bellatrix in front of him, wand held high, a sneer of triumph twisting her features. Tonks and Mad-Eye crumpled on the floor. Lucius Malfoy, blond hair flying wildly, crazily.

Lupin, holding Harry back, long arms wrapped around the smaller body.

So much like James... Oh God, so much to tell him! Just one more day, one more _hour..._

Harry!

_Not like this..._

_- _

_It wasn't supposed to happen like this..._

Bones cracking, muscles rippling, shifting, his body tearing itself apart and rebuilding. His mind was cracking, too, splitting apart. The man

(_this heart is where you truly live Remus this heart_)

falling away; the wolf

(_all about the madness within)_

clawing and biting and slashing its way to the front.

The wolf panted, shook its head, sniffed. Pale ribbons of scent lingered on the air.

He threw his head back and howled.

One more song to the moon, for the pack he'd lost and the mate he could not claim.

_Not like this..._

_- _

_It wasn't supposed to happen like this..._

The words kept circling her brain, taunting her. Tonks hunched her shoulders and pulled the cloak up around her ears. The scratchy wool pulled on her hair, unbearable pressure on her scalp. She couldn't even muster the energy to morph it to a shorter length.

Every brush of cloth on her skin made her want to rip the material from her body, maybe claw off a few layers of skin and muscle as well. Just scratch away until a new Tonks emerged from the old, pink and raw and gleaming.

_Not like this..._


	2. Interrogation

**RLNT, **263 words, rated K, no spoilers for anything, unless JKR gifts us with at least 10 more books after the next one and I can See the future. crosses fingers

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"Mummy?" 

"Hmm?"

"Why do the Wheezies call you Tonks?"

"The _Weasleys_ call me Tonks because that was my name when they first met me. I wasn't married to Daddy, so I still had the same name as Grammy."

"You're not married to Daddy when you see the Weasellys!"

"No, no, I'm always married to Daddy. See, I'm still wearing the ring."

"Oh, okay."

"It's a little confusing, isn't it?"

"Uh huh."

"Well, let's try this. What is my name now?"

"Mummy!"

"What's my name when Grammy Tonks comes over?"

"Niffdora?"

"Close enough. And what does Daddy call me when I get home from work?"

"Love!"

"Yes! See, all those names mean the same thing; all three of you use a different word, but you all mean _me_. Does that make sense?"

"I guess so… It's kinda like when I call the see-saw a see-saw and Vikram says nuh-uh it's a teeter-totter but it's still the same thing. Right?"

"You've got it! That's exactly what it's like."

"Okay."

"Any more questions?"

"What was Daddy's name when he wasn't married to you?"

"Well, boys have it easy. They have the same name when they're married and when they're not."

"He was Daddy then, too?"

"No, no, I meant his name was still Remus. He only got the name Daddy when you came along."

"Does he have any other names?"

"Uncle Sirius used to call him Moony, because of his illness."

"Oh. I like Moony. It's silly."

"It is silly, isn't it?"

"Uh huh. Mummy, what do you call yourself?"

"I call myself Lucky. Very Lucky."


	3. Outside Looking In

**Written for the First wotcherwerewolf Monthly Challenge: Bring on the Multi-Colored Werepups!  
Beware of fluff!**

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"I'm what?" she shrieked.

She's looking at me as if I've just spoken to her in Gobbledygook. I run the words through my head again, wondering if I misspoke. No. I don't think I did. Let's try this again.

"I've run all the standard tests and the results are the same. You're approximately six weeks pregnant, Miss." No room for misunderstanding there. Just the facts, ma'am. "You understand what I'm telling you?"

"I'm not daft, _sir_."

This time she snaps at me. I can see in her eyes that she doesn't quite believe me, _can't _believe me. Unfortunately, in this office, it's a look with which I'm all too familiar. Well, actually, I'm not very well-acquainted with _this_ particular look: her hair just went pure white and her eyes are like silver. She had blue hair and green eyes when we started our conversation.

"You're a Metamorphmagus, I see. That presents its own set of challenges in this situation." I turn from her and rummage through my overstuffed bookcase for several moments. I find the pamphlets right away, but want to give her some time to compose herself. "I'd like to schedule a follow-up appointment for next week. In the meantime, please look at this information. I'll be able to answer many of your questions during your next visit."

She reaches out to take the pamphlets, folds them carefully into her lap without looking at them. The disbelief has settled in around her eyes. It will most likely still be there when she returns next week.

"The receptionist will pencil you in for the earliest possible time. Please let her know what will be most convenient for you. Do you have- That is, you'll want to share those pamphlets with... Do you have someone who can accompany you next week?" Delicate phrasing is crucial in this job. Unfortunately, even after nearly three decades of practice, I'm sure I've not mastered the skill.

She nods. It looks as if her head is moving independently of her brain. She gets up to leave without saying another word.

-

The lunch crowd has finally died down and I have a few moments to catch my breath. I hate working during the week. If Patty hadn't sprained her ankle yesterday during her smoke break, I'd be sitting at home enjoying the peace and quiet. Instead, I'm running back and forth trying to keep up with all the hungry office-workers who descend on our café every afternoon at half-twelve. My feet feel like they're bleeding inside my sturdy shoes.

There's only one table left in the place with a customer. It's a young woman with white-blonde hair. She's been nursing the same glass of orange juice since she arrived twenty minutes ago. I've checked on her three times already, but she says she's waiting for someone. Well, he's obviously not here yet, so I have time to nip into the kitchen and charm a cheese sandwich out of Bernie.

When I come back to the dining room to check on her, there's a man sitting with her. Not much to look at, but to each her own, eh? They look deep in conversation, so I'll keep my distance for now.

I will never understand how people make such a mess out of a salad and soup. Napkins were invented for a reason!

"You're _what_?"

His voice startles me so badly I nearly drop the plates I'm carrying. I look at their table to make sure I won't have to call Bernie in to kick the man out. The girl is shredding a paper napkin into her lap and the man is just staring at her, mouth agape.

"It's not like I planned this, Remus." _Remus_? What the hell kind of name is that? "It's as much a shock to me as it is to you."

Oh. _Oh!_ So that's the deal then, eh? I remember saying something similar to Gerry almost twenty years ago. Come to think of it, he looks a little like Gerry did then – surprised and shocked and dismayed and pleased all at the same time.

I feel like I'm intruding on their privacy, even from all the way across the café. I can't not watch, though. This story is good enough for a free round of sherries on our next Girl's Night Out.

She's not looking at him. He reaches over and places one hand over hers, stilling her fingers and bringing her eyes up to his.

"I won't ask how this happened." She smiles at this and I do too. "Have you been to the hospital?"

She nods. He folds one of her hands in his. It looks ... right.

Her voice cracks a little when she replies. "I've made an appointment for next Tuesday. Will you go with me?"

"To the ends of the earth, Dora."

And that's my cue to go bother Bernie a bit.

-

I've been working this desk for six months now. I don't think I'll ever get used to it. People rushing in and out in various states of distress, Healers barking orders, owls flapping overhead, the fire flashing green and red and yellow. It's maddening.

I like Thursday nights though. Nice and quiet. Oh, we might see the occasional injury or accidental magic victim, but it's mostly a time to get caught up on the neverending flood of admissions scrolls and discharge orders. It's midwinter, which is usually our slowest time. There haven't been any patients in the last half-hour and my fingers are aching from using this splintery quill.

I'm rummaging around in the desk drawer, looking for another quill, when they walk in. That's pretty unusual. Most people are in such a panic, they Floo right in in whatever state of dress (or undress) they happen to find themselves. They're moving slowly too. You don't see much of that around here.

I can't see her, but I can hear her voice. She doesn't sound panicky, but there's definitely a thread of tension in her voice. He's walking backward toward me, all his attention focussed on her. When he helps her into a chair, I can see why they're here.

I pick up one of the lemon-yellow Birthing admission forms and Summon one of the indoor owls from its perch.

This is definitely their first. He's hovering over her, nervously patting her hand, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She waves in my direction and he turns toward me almost automatically. Luckily, I'm used to seeing looks of pure panic or I'd probably be laughing right now. New dads are all the same, never mind that witches have been giving birth for millennia.

He's just standing in front of the desk now. It looks as if he's completely forgotten where he is. I'll go easy on him. He looks like a nice man.

"Name, sir?"

"Remus Lupin."

I struggle not to laugh at him, but his companion obviously feels no shame in doing so. "I think she means _my _name, Remus!" She winces as she says this, her hand flying to her swollen belly.

"Oh! Right! Nymphadora Ton- Lupin!Nymphadora _Lupin_! We're having a baby," he adds, quite unnecessarily.

I write her name in on the top line and the rest of the form fills itself out. Obviously, someone was thinking ahead. Most of the new parents I've admitted are in such a dither they completely forget to pre-register. I fasten the form to the little owl's leg and send it upstairs.

"Mrs Lupin? Would you like me to call an attendant to take you up?"

She's rubbing her belly now, large circles around and around. "No, I think I can walk. _He_ might need some help, though." She smiles and her whole face lights up.

"We've just gotten married!" he blurts out. She laughs again and looks at me as if to apologize for him. There's no need, of course. It's very sweet, how he's completely lost himself tonight. Assuming, of course, that he's not normally like this.

"Congratulations, sir. Perhaps you'd like to take your wife upstairs now?" He jumps like someone just jabbed him in the buttocks with a broomstick and scurries over to her side. They slowly move toward the elevator. She's carrying the bag as he's got his hands full with her.

Just before the lift closes them in, she calls out, "Some of our family will be arriving soon. Will you send them up?"

As if I wouldn't. "Of course, ma'am. And congratulations. On both counts."

She smiles again. Or maybe still. She reaches for his hand and turns her face toward him. He looks back at her and their faces melt into expressions of such love and hope and softness that I feel a sharp tug around my heart.

I really do love Thursday nights.


	4. A Stone of the Heart

**Inspired by oxoniensis's Writers' Workout Challenge on LJ but not submitted because I need to learn how to follow instructions. **

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The bells above the door chime discreetly just as I begin my nightly closing rituals. I slide the keys back into my pocket, careful to keep them from jingling.

He looks a bit lost. Also, more than a bit ... disreputable. I do hope I won't have to call in the guard. There will be so many forms to fill out and I'm not sure where we keep all of them.

We get his type in here now and again. I'm not sure why. We keep some of our better pieces in the window display, which helps to discourage the casual browsers from entering. The security camera trained on the front door helps to deter the more unsavoury characters. However, occasionally, they slip in anyway.

Appearances can be deceiving, though. Why, one of our very best customers (sapphire tennis bracelet for Christmas, new diamond every anniversary) often arrives on foot and dressed in the most deplorable dungarees. We celebrated the New Year in Majorca last year, thanks to the commission from his bi-annual purchase.

I suppose I'd better approach this man. Usually my presence is enough to run his type out of the shop.

"May I help you, sir?" I use my frostiest tone and snootiest expression. He doesn't take his eyes off the rings and points one long and surprisingly well-manicured finger at the display case. I spy a ragged hole in the elbow of his shabby army-style pullover.

"The scrollwork on this ring is familiar. Do you regularly commission pieces from Beatrice Harrington?"

I am taken aback. He knows _on sight_ the work of one of Britain's premier designers? Perhaps I should rethink my approach.

"Oh, no, sir," there's definite warmth in my voice now, "we are extremely fortunate to have one of her best pieces on display here. It was done as a favour to the owner of this shop on the occasion of his twenty-fifth year in business. Would you like to examine it more closely?" I take a step toward the case.

He looks at me now. His eyes are the most unusual shade of green, reminding me of Alexandrite in natural light, although his eyes are more golden than blue. A question drifts idly across my mind: will his eyes turn red in a certain light, as with that particular stone? Of course, that's nonsense. Human eyes don't change colour that drastically in any light and anyway, we're bathed in a cool fluorescent glow right now. True Alexandrite would be the colour of blood in this light.

"No, that won't be necessary," he says softly. A faint smile twists his mouth, giving him a rather predatory expression. "I am merely dreaming today."

It's the kind of response that does not invite further conversation, so I keep my silence. He strikes me as a man still in the early stages of a relationship but contemplating taking a larger (and more expensive) step forward. One can always tell by the eyes.

Best to withdraw and be at the ready should he need assistance. This particular brand of customer doesn't respond well to hovering.

He walks slowly through the shop, pausing now and again to ask questions about the merchandise. His knowledge of precious gems is impressive, if a bit spotty. He's familiar enough with the naturally occurring stones, but doesn't seem to know much about the artificial pieces.

This bodes _very_ well. My mind wanders to the beaches of Majorca while he browses.

Alas, it is not to be. He spends a few more moments studying the wedding sets then thanks me politely and exits the shop.

I shouldn't worry, though. He'll be back. Men with that look in their eye always are.

-

It's an unseasonably chilly evening, the kind that never fails to remind me of short, cold nights near a warm fire, whispered conversations in the dark...

Oh, how I will miss that.

Wandering down one of the many identical lanes near my temporary lodgings, a brightly lit window catches my eye. Soft blue velvet flows under a bright spotlight trained on thick golden necklaces and silver stickpins. The cloth is the exact shade of the sky above and the light twinkles off the many sparkling stones like starlight.

I know I shouldn't go in, but my hand reaches for the door handle anyway. A warm blast of air caresses my face and blows the fringe out of my eyes. I hadn't even realized my hair had grown so long.

The shop is larger than I expected from the outside. It smells faintly of must and old money. Lots of old money. I adjust my too-well-worn pullover, aware that I don't belong among these pristine gems and precious metals.

A meticulously dressed little man hovers near a door at the side of the shop. I see him slide something into the pocket of his waistcoat.

I am on the verge of calling out a friendly greeting to alleviate his inevitable suspicions when my attention is diverted to the largest display case. It stands in the middle of the room under a bright white spotlight. The jewellery inside sparkles and flashes, as though the gemstones inside are clamouring for my attention.

Inside the case, a multitude of rings vie for attention against a rich black velvet cloth. Diamonds in every conceivable cut and colour wink at me from their varied settings. The contents of this single glass case would easily purchase an entire island nation in the South Pacific. A very _small_ island nation, but nonetheless, it is impressive.

I once worked – very briefly, of course – for a Muggle book publisher. In the three months I was employed there, I worked on a number of projects but was absolutely obsessed with only one. I was responsible for writing the copy for the photographs in a mid-level jeweller's book. At the time, what I knew of fine jewellery wouldn't have filled a thimble. Many a night was spent in my dingy, draughty flat devouring books on gemmology and design. Several years after I was asked to leave that job, I enrolled in a few courses at the Muggle university in Edinburgh. The tuition money would have been better spent on better food and more comfortable shelter, but I never have been one for practicality when it comes to learning.

Not that the knowledge has done me much good since. I cannot afford to buy the pieces I so admire and scruffy persons such as myself are rarely offered jobs in the trade.

I spend a few moments studying the rings on display. It's a collection of wedding sets. None of them are marked with either price or designer, which speaks volumes about both. I can feel the clerk hovering nearby, probably deciding whether to call for help. I don't blame him. If I saw someone lingering over these jewels, dressed as I am, I'd be nervous too.

One set in particular stands out against the rest. The wide platinum wedding band has two channels of pure white princess-cut diamonds separated by delicate Celtic knot scrollwork. I would estimate the total weight to be a little over a carat. The engagement ring is a simple slender band of platinum with a tiny heart-cut white and green moss agate. The man's ring rests just under the wedding band, a thick tapered platinum ring with two heavier knots surrounding the square-cut agate – which looks to have been cut from the same stone as the one in the engagement ring. The contrast between the diamonds and the agate is striking, perhaps even a little off-putting. The craftsmanship is exquisite; I know of only one designer with the talent to pull it off.

The clerk offers his assistance, though his tone makes it clear that he is only asking as a matter of habit. A dismissive reply is on the tip of my tongue, but instead, I find myself pointing to the rings.

"The scrollwork on this ring is familiar. Do you regularly commission pieces from Beatrice Harrington?"

I can practically feel the shock rolling off him in waves.

"Oh, no, sir," he says, in a deferential tone, "we are extremely fortunate to have one of her best pieces on display here. It was done as a favour to the owner of this shop on the occasion of his twenty-fifth year in business. Would you like to examine it more closely?"

He moves toward the case, clearly intending to remove the pieces for my inspection. I lock eyes with him and demur. As Dumbledore would say, "it does not do to dwell on dreams." I know of only one witch who would suit these unusual rings and it would be far better for me to direct my dreams elsewhere. I am too everything and nothing for her.

The clerk nods and steps back again, doing his best to blend into the background. I wander through the shop, reacquainting myself with the beauty of the cold stones. We carry on a bit of conversation about many of the pieces. The store stocks a wide array of paste and costume jewellery - something with which I am not terribly familiar. I make a mental note to visit the library tomorrow for a book on artificial gemstones. The wide array of colours and shapes has sparked my curiosity. It's been an age since I studied anything for pleasure and in a matter of days, I will lose the opportunity for any sort of civilised pursuit.

At length, my circuit of the store brings me back to the central display. I gaze at the Harrington set for a moment longer, but I am well aware of the clerk's expectant air. It seems cruel to lead him on when I have not the means to purchase even the cheapest trinket, let alone these three exquisite rings.

I thank him and make my way back out into the street.

The cold wind chases down my neck and creeps in through the hole at my elbow. Shoving my hands into my trouser pockets, I set off for my miserable rooms, images of sparkling diamonds and glossy agates and tear-filled eyes tumbling through my mind.

I shake my head to clear it. It's far past time I started getting into character. Thoughts such as these have no place where I am going.

Someday, perhaps...

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**Caveat emptor: What I know about gemstones/jewellery design wouldn't fill the head of a pin, let alone a thimble. Google, however, is my very bestest friend EVAR!**

**Written while listening to "Radha Kaise Na Jale" from the _Lagaan _soundtrack (OMG go find a copy!) and after a discussion of the jewellery on display at the Field Museum in Chicago. Could be read as part the wotcherwerewolf challenge universe - see previous chapter - although this particular scene takes place very soon after the end of OotP/beginning of HBP.****  
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**At my LJ, I've posted pictures of actual rings that closely resemble the pieces in this story, if you're so inclined.**

**One more thing, this chapter title comes from W.B. Yeats's Easter 1916. If you're not familiar with Yeats, get yourself to Bartleby!  
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	5. Impressions Part One

**For the challenge at LJ community rlntficathon, requested by evrdream33. First of three parts. **

**I'm not sure I've entirely met the challenge from evrdream, but it's what came out on paper.  
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**I**

Remus, for possibly the first time in his life, dropped a book to the floor without noting the page number or marking his place. The heavy tome bounced off the top of his foot before falling open, face-down, on the threadbare carpet. In some small corner of his brain, he could hear a voice that sounded suspiciously like Madam Pince, shrieking about creased pages.

"Who are you? What are you doing in my flat?" His voice cracked a little on the last word as he raised his wand in a defensive posture.

One of the intruders raised two slim hands as if to show that she was unarmed. The man at her side raised his own wand and stepped in front of the woman. They looked familiar, but Remus couldn't remember where or when he'd seen them.

"Put it down, boy. We're not here to harm you," he said softly. "Dumbledore sent us. It's about Sirius..." He trailed off, a hard, dark look twisting his face.

Remus shook his head, certain he hadn't really heard that name. He hadn't heard a peep from any of his friends for almost six weeks. It hadn't really surprised him; they'd all drifted apart somewhat after leaving school and with a baby in the picture now... Well, who would want a werewolf hanging on the bell all day?

"Sure, he did," Remus jeered, "and Voldemort's been defeated and we're all going to live happily ever after."

The couple exchanged looks and the woman touched the man's wand arm, pulling it gently down to his side. She looked at Remus then, the expression in her eyes making a cold and hard lump settle in Remus's belly.

She spoke slowly, almost as though she couldn't force the words past her lips. "Sirius has been... There was an attack tonight and –" She stopped abruptly and moved toward him. "Is anyone here with you?"

"No, I live on my own," he answered automatically, then shook his head. The coldness in his stomach was growing, spreading out and up, into his throat. "Why are you here? What's happened to Sirius? Who are you? TELL ME WHAT'S GOING ON!"

The woman was at his side now, pushing his wand arm down as she had just done to her companion. "I'm Andromeda, Sirius's cousin. This is my husband. Dumbledore sent us to tell you – Oh gods, Remus, you should sit down first." Now her voice was cracking and that same dark look was moving into her face.

Remus jumped as he felt the man's hand land on his shoulder, hard. He hadn't even noticed that the wizard had moved. He allowed himself to be steered onto the settee, looking in complete bewilderment at the couple now looming over him.

The man (_Ted Tonks_, his brain supplied from some dimly remembered encounter) squeezed his shoulder. "Do you have any tea? Or something stronger?"

"Second shelf above the sink, behind the cereal. Will you _please _just tell me what's happening" He was practically shrieking now, his brain whirling as he tried to figure out why Dumbledore had sent them.

Andromeda dropped to her knees in front of him, clasping both his hands in hers as Ted moved into the tiny kitchenette. Her hands were like ice, but surprisingly strong. She held on tight as she started to speak, her voice barely above a whisper.

"There was an attack tonight, Remus. At Godric's Hollow." Her grip on his hands tightened as he tried to jerk away from her. She started speaking faster, the words tripping over themselves as they fell from her mouth. "It was Voldemort. He attacked the house and tried to kill the baby but the curse rebounded and he's been destroyed."

"Oh dear gods," Remus breathed. "That's wonderful... Where are Lily and James? The baby? Are they all right? I have to go see them!" He tried to push her aside so he could stand up.

"You can't, Remus. You can't," Andromeda said as she struggled against him. "James and Lily Potter are dead."

The next few moments passed in a daze. Andromeda was holding his head to her chest, her hands stroking softly over the back of his head. Screams echoed in his mind. Someone was sobbing.

_He_ was sobbing.

How long he'd been like this, he didn't know. He pulled away from Andromeda and wiped at the tears on his face. The cold lump in his stomach had broken into icy shards that pierced straight through his heart. James and Lily, _dead_. No more chances to sit and talk with them, no chance to make things right again.

Ted pressed a cool tumbler into his hands. The whisky burned as it flowed down his throat.

He pushed aside the pain, trapped it in a little box. There would be more than enough time for it later. Too much time.

"What –" he croaked, "what happened to Sirius? Where is he?"

Andromeda looked up at her husband, her blue eyes brimming with tears. "You tell him, Ted," she whispered. "I don't think I can."

Ted's broad face crumpled as he looked down at his wife. He nodded, jerkily, and crouched down in front of Remus.

"Sirius has been arrested. Peter Pettigrew confronted him and accused him of– Of betraying his friends. Sirius attacked him, killed him..."

"NO!" Remus shouted. He pushed himself onto the back of the settee, trying to scramble away from the couple, to escape these horrible lies. They had to be lying! How could the Potters be dead? Sirius would never betray them!

He was dimly aware that he was shouting most of this at the couple still crouched on the floor. His eyes moved wildly around the room, searching for the wand one of them had apparently taken from him. If he could find his wand, he could apparate to Godric's Hollow, prove their words were false. Andromeda was openly sobbing now. Ted had risen to his full height and was walking around the end of the settee.

Remus barely noticed. The wand had to be nearby. The flat wasn't that large, just a small parlor and kitchenette with a bedroom and bathroom beyond. Had one of them gone to the back of the flat while he was crying?

He could see the house at Godric's Hollow in his mind. Maybe such a familiar place could be reached with a wandless apparition?

"Remus."

He spun around. Ted had moved up behind him and now had his wand pointed directly at Remus's heart.

"I'm sorry to have to do this, Remus, truly, I am."

Remus gaped at him, unable to process what was happening.

"_Petrificus Totalus_!"


	6. Impressions Part Two

**See chapter five for notes.**

**II**

"... and Peter was just lying there on the floor for over an hour!"

Sirius finishes his story by throwing himself to the floor, howling with laughter. James quickly follows suit by slumping in a heap on top of Sirius's legs and wiping tears away from under his glasses. Peter chuckles a little – just another of a long line of obvious attempts to pretend the constant practical jokes didn't bother him in the slightest.

I just shake my head and glance across the room at Lily. Not much has changed since our last year together in the tower. The only visible difference is that she's playing with Harry while she rolls her eyes at the antics of our decidedly juvenile friends.

"Honestly, Sirius, will you never grow up?" She probably means to sound good-natured and amused, but there's an undercurrent of annoyance in her voice.

James quickly sits up and tries to school his features into an expression more suitable for the father of a nine-month-old. "C'mon, Lily! It was a great joke! And it's not like Peter here minds getting petrified, do you, Wormtail?"

"'Course not – heh, heh – not like it's the first time!"

Lily huffs, "Whatever. I thought you lot would have grown out of that by now. We've been out of school for three years and..."

"And what?" Sirius interrupts her. "We're all supposed to be boring old adults now who never have any fun? Just sit around talking about work?"

"It'd be a nice change, that!" Lily shoots back.

I tune them all out as Lily and Sirius gear up for _another_ blazing row, their third since we arrived at the tiny house in Godric's Hollow a few hours ago. Apparently, Sirius, in lieu of finding actual work, has settled for needling Lily at every opportunity. James, torn between his wife and his best mate, does his best to play peacekeeper but their tempers are so fierce and their fuses so short that he can do little more than gesture helplessly between them once they get going.

Peter shrinks back from everyone. I've noticed he's been doing that a lot lately. He was never the most outgoing of our merry little band, but recently he's become even more of an observer than active participant.

Sirius and Lily have worked themselves into a real shouting match now and little Harry looks like he's about to burst into tears.

Three. Two. One...

_Waaaaaaaahhhhhhh!_

Thought so. Lily scoops him up in her arms and marches up the tiny staircase to his bedroom. James is glaring daggers at Sirius for upsetting the baby and Sirius... He's absolutely red in the face and glaring right back. That's my cue, then.

"Well, Prongs, I must be off. Thank Lily for lunch when she comes back down, will you?" I stand up and carefully place the book I was reading on the small bookcase, making sure the spine doesn't stick out beyond the surrounding titles. James nods shortly at me and resumes his glaring at Sirius. "Padfoot? You ready?"

"More than," he barks and stomps out the front door.

I follow him a few seconds later after I collect his leather jacket and my cloak from the end of the sofa. He's standing under a streetlight, smoking one of his obnoxious clove cigarettes and glaring darkly at the little house.

By the time I reach him, he's muttering under his breath about Lily. I do what I've always done and ignore him. We walk a few blocks before he finally calms down.

"So, Moony, a nice break from all the doom and gloom, eh?"

I can't help but laugh out loud. We haven't gotten together much recently; everyone's busy with their own lives and hanging around with friends isn't such a priority right now. Plus, with the war on, Lily gets nervous about having so many Order members under one roof. Still, it was a pleasant afternoon. In between the shouting matches, anyway.

Sirius grins crookedly at me, his earlier mood fading into the late afternoon air like the smoke curling from his cigarette. We walk on in silence until we reach the designated Apparition point at the end of the lane.

"Look, mate, I'm sorry about that back there. It's just that she's driving me batty! Ever since she popped out that kid, she's been acting like she's so much better than the rest of us." Sirius grinds the butt of his cigarette under his heel, then shoves his hands in his pockets and starts to look mutinous again.

Secretly, I have to side with Lily on this. Sirius has done little more than drift since we left school. Meanwhile, the rest of us are struggling to build our lives. Some of us struggle more than others, but I can hardly expect Sirius to see that. Life's just one big party for him.

Of course, saying any of this out loud would do more harm than good, so I just nod and punch his arm.

He punches back – much harder than necessary – and grins again. Typical.

"All right, Moony, you up for some real fun?" He leers at me and waggles his eyebrows in a familiar expression. It brings back a thousand memories: trying to sneak into the Prefect's bathroom under James's cloak, clumsy flirting with Madam Rosmerta, breaking curfew to meet Hufflepuff girls behind the greenhouses, crashing a post-Hogwarts party at Emmeline Vance's house with a fifth of Old Ogden's...

"What kind of fun are we talking, here?" I ask warily.

Sirius whacks me on the back and crows, "A party! This sweet young thing I know is having her birthday tonight and she practically _begged _me to be there."

"Oh, I don't know, Padfoot. I've got to get up early for work tomorrow and ..."

"Nonsense! We'll just pop in for a minute, make the birthday girl happy and then go down the Leaky Cauldron for a pint. Make it an early night!" He gives me his best puppy-dog-eyes expression.

Literally.

As soon as the last word left his mouth, he transformed and is now sitting at my feet, tongue lolling. I never could say no to that face.

I sigh. "All right, but no more than thirty minutes at the party. And if you skive off with some bird and leave me stranded, I'll tell everyone about the time you got locked out of the tower, starkers, and had to beg McGonagall to let you back in."

He barks once and leaps up to start slobbering all over my face. I push him away before he gets drool all over my robes.

"And change back, will you? You're going to have to do a Side-Along."

In an instant, he's standing next to me again, black hair sticking up all over his head. It's no wonder people often mistake him as James's brother.

"All right, all right. Don't get your knickers in a twist! We'll go in a minute; first, I have to remember where it is that we're going."

"Sirius!"

"Gods, man, lighten up! I know exactly where it is. Here, hold my hand like a good little boy."

"Arse." I drape the jacket and cloak over my arm, clasp my hand around his bicep and steel myself for what will no doubt be the Worst Side-Along Apparition in the History of the World. He's never been any great shakes at navigation.

He's just drawn his wand and is about to cast the spell when Peter scurries up next to us.

"Where you off to, then?" He looks pathetically eager to be included, an all-too-familiar look. Peter could be a great wizard (he's certainly powerful enough to be) but he's such a shrinking violet that, more often than not, people forget he's even there. He tries to make up for it by being as ingratiating as possible. Drives Sirius crazy. He's not the only one.

Sirius sizes him up, then answers with a smirk, "Party, loads of girls. You in?"

Peter nods and Sirius looks at him, then me, and an evil grin splits his face. "How about it, Remus? Think I can manage a triple?"

Peter grabs hold of the other arm and Sirius raises his wand before I can manage more than a few words.

"Padfoot, no, you can't..."

"_Appareo triplicus_!"

"Gerroffme!" a voice cries out from somewhere under my left knee.

We've landed in a heap, next to a brightly painted garden gate. Judging by the softness under me, I've landed on Peter. I open my eyes to find Sirius's face no more than two inches above mine.

A shadow falls on us and a deep voice says, "Wotcher, Sirius."

"NO, I WILL NOT MAKE OUT WITH YOU, _REMUS_!" Sirius shouts as he clambers off me, making sure to plant a hard elbow in the centre of my chest. "Wotcher, Ted. Can you believe this guy, trying to seduce me in broad daylight?"

The deep voice, Ted, chuckles. "Yeah, yeah, you Blacks have it so rough. Everybody always trying to get in your pants."

"Too right," Sirius agrees.

I close my eyes as the dull burn of embarrassment floods my face. You'd think I'd be used to it by now.

Peter squirms under my leg and I roll to my side to let him up. I knew this party was a bad idea. Less than thirty seconds and Sirius has already made me look like a complete fool. What does the rest of the evening hold in store?

Sirius grabs the back of my robes and hauls me to my feet. I busy myself with brushing bits of grass off to avoid looking at Ted, who chuckles again and opens the gate to let us into the garden.

"Girls are 'round back," he says. "Go on in, introduce yourselves. Don't let the shrieking scare you off."

Shrieking? What kind of party is this?

Peter pales visibly and Sirius is practically rubbing his hands together in glee. He lopes around the side of the house, calling out, "Oh, _birthday _girl! Come out and give your Sirius a big wet kiss!"

One high-pitched squeal rises over the dull roar emanating from the back of the house and less than ten seconds later, a brightly coloured blur is racing around the corner. Sirius lets out an _Ooof_! as the blur collides with him, knocking them both to the ground.

Peter and I stop dead in our tracks, staring at the two figures now wrestling on the ground. I hear Ted laughing again behind us.

The birthday girl is small and cute and peppering Sirius's face with kisses while he tickles her.

She's also no more than ten years old.

Less than ten minutes later, Peter, Sirius and I are firmly ensconced in the middle of an elaborate garden-tea-birthday party, surrounded by nearly a dozen chattering girls who insist on our calling them all Princess Whatever-Their-First-Name-Is. Peter looks horrified and awkward and ready to bolt. He has enough trouble with girls our age, let alone a gaggle of prepubescents in frilly summer dresses who giggle every time one of us speaks.

I've actually been forced to spend time with girls this age a bit, courtesy of my little sister, but I'm sure my face mirrors some of the same horror. It's rather a lot to take in all at once. Especially when one is not expecting it.

Sirius is so going to pay for this one.

Ted, who is apparently the father of the aforementioned Birthday Girl, has abandoned us. He excused himself to look for his wife, Andie, in the house and hasn't come back out yet. I wouldn't be at all surprised if we don't see him again for the rest of the evening.

In the meantime, Sirius is in his element. Eleven little girls hanging on his every word... His head won't fit through any doors for at least the next fortnight.

It's not so bad right now, actually. Sirius is spinning some tall tale about fighting off a nasty, greasy troll at once (who sounds suspiciously like a Slytherin of our acquaintance) and all the girls are _ooh_ing and _aah_ing in all the right places.

Well, almost all the girls. I just looked up from my careful selection of the perfect cream puff to find the birthday girl watching me closely.

"Are you going to eat all of that?" she blurts out.

"I was planning on it, yes. Why?"

"You're awfully skinny."

"Thank you for the lovely compliment, Princess –" _What did Sirius call her?_ "– Dora."

She blushes and ducks her head, muttering, "Sorry," and something else I can't quite hear over the sudden burst of giggles coming from the other end of the table.

"I'm sorry. Could you repeat that?"

"Don't call me Dora. My name is Tonks."

"Yes, Your Highness. Princess Tonks it is." I pick up the cream puff and take a huge bite as she giggles. "Hah moulder youf today?"

She laughs outright this time. "I'm ten. I get to go to Hogwarts next year."

"Aren't you a little old for a princess party, then?" Oh, gods, did I just say that out loud?

Princess Tonks doesn't seem too bothered by the question, though. She shrugs one little shoulder and the teacup in her lap wobbles dangerously. "It was Mum's idea. It's easier not to argue with her."

"I see," I say, even though I don't really.

I take another bite of cream puff, only to spit most of it out onto the table when she suddenly bellows, "_MUM_!"

An upstairs window flies open and a dark-haired witch sticks her head out. "Nymphadora _Tonks_, how many times have I told you ladies don't raise their voices?" she yells.

Princess Tonks rolls her eyes theatrically at me and I have to stuff the cream puff back in my mouth to keep from laughing.

Sirius stops his story long enough to shout up at the witch above, "Wotcher, cousin!"

She waves back at him and then calls down to her daughter, "What did you want?"

"The camera," her daughter yells back, in what is probably her most ladylike voice. "I want a picture of Sirius and his friends! He brought Remus and Peter to my party!"

"Pleasure to meet you, Remus, Peter." Andie nods at both of us before looking back to her daughter. "It's in Dad's study," she says and shuts the window.

"I'll be right back," the princess says and runs off to the house. She trips over the hem of her skirt and falls through the open door.

I start to get out of my seat to see if she's all right, but Sirius waves me back down.

"She's fine. Dead clumsy. I'm surprised she's stayed sitting this long without falling over." He turns back to his adoring audience and launches back into his story.

Peter pokes me in the shoulder and gestures toward the house. "As soon as she gets her picture, let's get out of here."

"Absolutely."

A few moments later, Sirius is just wrapping up his story as the birthday girl emerges from the house, walking slowly and carefully with the camera cradled in her arms. Andie and Ted follow behind her, no doubt ready to leap forward if she starts to wobble.

Princess Tonks imperiously tells her friends to get out of the way and spends several long minutes trying to fit Peter, Sirius and me in the viewfinder. At last, she manages it (with a little help from Ted) and tells us to get ready. I nudge Sirius, whose attention has wandered to the confections littering the table.

Andie mouths _thank you_ to me as Ted slides his arm around her waist.

Sirius wraps his arms around our shoulders and grins widely for the camera. "Isn't this great?"

"Splendid," I drawl. "Exactly the sort of wild party I needed."

He throws back his head and laughs just as the birthday girl calls out.

"Say _cheese_!"


	7. Impressions Part Three

**So, have you seen that scene in the first Bridget Jones movie in which she attempts to make a gourmet meal for her birthday party? You know, the Orange Marmalade, er, Parfait in Sugar Cages?  
Er, this installment is the fanfiction equivalent. I was aiming for sweet and fluffy and, well, I got this instead. Perhaps I used too much orange zest?  
Hope you enjoy it! crosses fingers**

(Thanks to kanikan, who courageously offered to help salvage the thing.)

**

* * *

III**

"You don't have to do this, you know," the woman blurted out as they sat down across from me on the train, "if you're uncomfortable. I can just make up something to tell them. Gods know I've been doing that often enough lately."

"Nonsense. You still haven't told me the plan, granted, but whatever it is, I'm sure it's vastly preferable to all the sneaking around. If you have to keep what you're really doing from your family, the least I could do is help." The man slanted a look at the woman sitting beside him, her shoulder-length ponytail brushing the back of the seat. She was visibly nervous, twisting the hem of her shirt in one hand hard enough to leave wrinkles in the soft fabric. "Besides, I never turn down a home-cooked meal."

She laughed. "Not much chance of that this weekend. I doubt my mother's actually _cooked_ anything in a decade."

"Well, in that case..." He stood, tipping an imaginary hat to her and sketching a quick bow. He moved into the narrow aisle as if to leave and staggered forward a few steps when she launched herself onto his back, her hands clutching the front of his jumper.

"No! You can't leave me!" she squealed, her arms nearly strangling him.

The man looked nervously around the crowded carriage, a pink flush riding high on his cheeks. I pretended to be busy staring out the window just past him until he looked away again. He disentangled her hands from his clothing as he shuffled backward to the seats they'd just abandoned. She fell with a thump as he let go of her hands. He stood over her, hands on his hips.

She peered up at him through her fringe, her brightly-painted mouth twisted in an awkward grin. "Sorry," she said, not sounding the least bit apologetic.

He sighed and sat down in the seat by the window. "You know, you really do remind me a great deal of your cousin."

"Really?" She didn't look thrilled by this comparison. "Which bit? The drunken housebound sad-sack with a serious case of arrested development or the murderous raving escaped convict?"

I reached into my bag and pulled out a pen and the notebook I use for classes. I had a feeling I'd be repeating this scene for all of my friends and family in the next few days and I wanted to remember as many details as possible.

The man looked down at his hands and grimaced. "Actually, I meant the carefree, acts-before-he-thinks friend I knew ... before," he said, so softly I could barely make out the words.

In a flash, her expression went from sulky to chagrined. She reached out and wrapped her hand around his. "I'm sorry," she said, this time sounding like she meant it.

He leaned away from her and pulled his hands out of her grasp. He turned his gaze to the city flashing past the window. She kept staring at the back of his head, even as she drew her hands back into her lap. I had to look away – the naked worry and longing etched into every line of her face was too raw, too intimate. I felt like a voyeur suddenly, even sitting as we were in a very public train carriage. I busied myself with my notebook, writing nonsense while the silence between them grew.

They didn't speak for quite a while. The scenery whizzing past outside gradually shifted from shops and crowded streets to quiet suburban lanes and houses. I snuck glances at the two of them from time to time. He was still facing the window, but his eyes were closed. He looked tired and older than his years, which I would guess numbered somewhere in the mid-thirties. She was fidgeting in her seat again. The wrinkles she was twisting into her shirt had long since become creases. Our eyes met once. She smiled, I blushed, and she winked and looked away.

Finally, the man opened his eyes and turned toward her. He said, in a brisk, business-like tone, "Shall we discuss exactly what we're to tell your parents?"

She nodded. "Well, I've been putting them off about what I'm doing in my free time for a few weeks, but they're starting to demand answers. Dad thinks I'm suffering from some sort of work-related trauma, but Mum is convinced that I'm having some torrid affair with a married man or something." She paused and blushed a deep fiery red as he snorted softly. "What? It could happen!"

"I very much doubt that," he said. She bristled and he rushed to explain himself as she opened her mouth to retort. "I mean that I doubt you would get involved with a married man. I didn't mean to imply that a torrid affair would be out of the question, just that... You are a very attractive young woman... I'll stop now."

She looks amused; he looks awkward. That faint blush has crept back into his face. They make quite a fetching couple with those matching reddened cheeks.

He changes the subject. "So, what's my role to be today? I have met your parents before, remember, so I doubt the former professor angle will work. Perhaps something to do with the investigation into your cousin's whereabouts?"

She hesitated for a few seconds before answering. "Well, actually, I've told my mum in no uncertain terms that I am not having a torrid affair with a married man."

"Okay," he said slowly, looking confused.

She flipped her ponytail over her shoulder and glanced at me before continuing. I pretended to be deeply immersed in my notebook and leaned forward ever so slightly, watching them through my eyelashes.

"I told her you're single."

-

The weekend went better than I'd expected. One of my dearest friends was planning her wedding to a man who, quite frankly, made my skin crawl. This trip home was to help her find "the perfect dress", a process which she promised me would only take a few hours and instead stretched into a marathon two-day power-shopping session. Still, it was great fun seeing her again. I'm sure she'll turn into one of those horrendous Brides From Hell in a few weeks' time, but she was relaxed and happy this time - even as the shopgirls hauled out every single dress they had in storage, down to a truly hideous recreation of Princess Di's wedding gown.

I may even have to rethink my stance on her husband-to-be. He really does seem enamoured of her. He'd gotten them a pair of those mobile phones for their anniversary and spent most of the weekend cooing at her through the clunky plastic device. That's rather a large step for such a notorious skinflint. The phones have gotten cheaper this past year, but I hear the cost of each call is still exorbitantly high.

I was jingling the change in my pocket on the platform while I waited for the train back to London when I saw a familiar couple. They were walking up the stairs with an older couple, who bore a striking resemblance to the young woman. The man had his arm draped over her shoulders, a marked contrast to the awkward way he'd stood next to her when last I saw them. She'd really shocked him with that "you're single" line.

The women embraced while the men shook hands. The younger man's voice drifted toward me and I heard him solemnly agree to take good care of "Dora". Looks like their plan worked pretty well.

They stood talking for a few moments more and I lost sight of them when the train pulled up and a few groups of people disembarked. By the time I'd gathered my bags, the platform had cleared. The younger couple were gone and the older man and woman were walking slowly back to the stairs behind me. I lingered over my bags for a moment. I wanted to hear what they were saying.

"Well, Ted, what do you think?" the woman asked, tilting her head to look up at her much taller companion.

A broad grin split his face as he replied. "Didn't believe a word of it, of course! I will say this, though: they may not be dating now, but I'd give it about three months before they are."

"Really, that long? I'd give it three weeks. Maybe a full month. Surely you saw the way he gazed at her when she wasn't looking!"

"You may have a point there, Andie. She did manage to convince him to come up here by train, when we all know there are much faster ways to travel. And, I kept trying to trip him up all weekend, but he seems to know every little thing about her. Even knew she likes to read those trashy romance novels when she's bored."

"Did he?" she murmured. "That's interesting."

He continued, "Still, I don't know. He's always seemed a bit reserved, even when he was barely out of school. Three months. That's my guess."

She took his hand in her much smaller one and twined their fingers together. "Care to put your money where your mouth is?" she asked. "I've a Galleon that says a month, at the outside."

She was going to wager an old ship? I shook my head, certain I'd heard wrong.

The man looked down at her and nodded his head. "I'll take that wager."

Their voices faded as they moved down the steps. I juggled my bags and ran for the train before I missed it entirely.

I also made a mental note to do a little more travelling when my schedule was clear. You really do overhear the strangest things on long train rides.


End file.
